


A Way To Get Comfortable

by NavyPerks



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Couch Cuddles, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, One True Pairing, POV Sherlock Holmes, Romance, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Spooning, True Love, conflicted feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NavyPerks/pseuds/NavyPerks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock felt like his body was burning, too hot for his own good with the only cure being the balm of another's touch to heal the agitation away. Sherlock swallowed and glanced over to the living room, where John would be on the sofa, already watching crap telly, with their food out and waiting. Sherlock wanted intimacy all right, and he wanted it from John."</p><p>A story in which Sherlock craves to be touched, and with touch, comes unexpected feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Starts With A Feeling

Sherlock had had a long, long day; he had to solve two cases simultaneously - both hard- but solvable, yell at a few incompetent officers including Anderson, had to deal with Mycroft reprimanding him for almost getting blown up the other day "Mummy would have been absolutely devastated Sherlock", fill in tedious paperwork which in his agitation managed to fling it at Lestrade, mess up the papers and then had to start all over again, and the most unthinkable thing: John wasn't with him. He was working at the surgery all day and so Sherlock didn't even have his favourite blogger to make his day bearable. At the end of it all, the great detective was simply exhausted, mentally or physically, perhaps both, he couldn't tell anymore.

Finally arriving home to Baker Street, Sherlock found John at the kitchen table, sorting through bags of Chinese takeaway. John looked up as Sherlock entered through the kitchen door and smiled sympathetically. "You look absolutely buggered. Had a text from Lestrade saying you took a toll with the paperwork. The food's just come in. Why don't you take a quick shower and then we can eat this while watching crap telly. Sounds good?"

Sherlock was already feeling better; John was here and some of his earlier pent up tension was already drifting away. "Sounds fantastic"

-

The shower was reinvigorating. It helped purge Sherlock from all his stresses: he felt his mind unwind and even amid the steam and hot water, Sherlock found himself breathing deeply and more easily. Stepping out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, he felt unbelievably refreshed, but there was still some lingering tension. But of a different kind. He felt like his body was missing something. It had come out of nowhere. Was it exhaustion? Sherlock couldn't tell. But it was like his body yearned for something. Sherlock stood a moment and thought. It was like his body was itching actually. But the thing with itches is that one usually removes something from the skin in order for it to go away. No...this time it felt like the opposite. This time it felt like the only way for that crawling, strange sensation to go is through contact. Physical contact. Sherlock frowned at himself and this strange feeling. He felt like being in contact with someone? Actual physical contact. Touching contact. The urge came swiftly and suddenly. And it was strong. His body was beyond tired, yes, but it also craved some touching, some _intimacy_. Sherlock felt like his body was burning, too hot for his own good with the only cure being the balm of another's touch to heal the agitation away. Sherlock swallowed and glanced over to the living room, where John would be on the sofa, already watching crap telly, with their food out and waiting. Sherlock wanted intimacy all right, and he wanted it from John.

-

Dressed in his pyjama bottoms, loose t-shirt and gown thrown on top, Sherlock made his way into the living room and slipped into his spot beside John. Some sci-fi show was on, with an oddly dressed man wielding a lighted screwdriver like a wand. John smiled at him, eyes warm. Sherlock's skin tingled in response.

"Better then?"

"Indefinitely"

"Then let's tuck in"

Up until Sherlock had picked up his box, he hadn't realised he was absolutely famished. He tore through his food savagely, not bothering to use chopsticks in lieu of the practically of a fork. John was eating his much slower, and steadily, staring on amusedly at Sherlock. "Body still just transport then?" He chuckled after a few minutes of quiet eating.

Sherlock scoffed whilst stabbing his fork into a piece of black bean beef. "Of course. Although my body does seem to demand more from me today than usual." Sherlock paused slightly at the doubled meaning of his words, but then shrugged it off. John wouldn't read into it. He chanced a side look at John and found him smiling to himself. He's probably happy to get me eating, Sherlock mused whilst stabbing his fork into... nothing. Oh. He seemed to have finished. He doesn't often get that. He stared dejectedly at his empty box. The food may be finished, but he wasn't finished eating it. Sherlock's body was indeed asking wonders from him today. Noticing this, John's smile grew wider and without taking his eyes of the telly, reached down beside the couch and picked up another box of food. He offered it to Sherlock without saying a word, but the twinkle in his eyes were there. Sherlock failed to hide his own smile as he ate. There was only one prominent thought it his mind in that moment: where would he be without his blogger?

-

After they had eaten and had sipped their tea, the pair lay sprawled on their respective ends of the sofa, well-fed, and rested. The show with the eccentric, space travelling man had just finished and they were skipping through crap telly, sighing in boredom at the sameness of it all. Finally, John put the remote down and grinned. "I have an idea"

"An idea for what?" Sherlock drawled, relaxed and content.

"Be back in a jiffy" Was John's reply. 

Fifteen minutes later of rummaging through the deep recesses of his bedroom cupboards, John clambered down the stairs, proudly holding up a DVD. Pirates of the Caribbean. Sherlock's eyebrows rose slightly and his mouth opened to speak. Seeing the look on his face, John hurriedly spoke before Sherlock could utter a word. "Now shush you. This is a film about pirates and is in no way realistic, but I can assure you that you will enjoy it immensely"

Sherlock closed his mouth, smiled and gave a small sheepish nod in acknowledgement. He'd always loved pirates. It seemed like John's taste in films wasn't too horrible after all.

"By all means then John, put it in."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock realised the double meaning behind what he just said. His alabaster skin blushed deeply and his eyes widened. He did it again. God damn it! It's his transport that's making him act and talk like this. However, with his back turned on setting up the movie, John didn't seem to realise the double entendre of Sherlock's words. Well that is, Sherlock dearly hoped he didn't.

Five minutes later and they were settled on the couch, comfortable and eager to start watching the film. They would have made their customary popcorn for such movie nights but they were already too full from all the takeaway. As the film began, Sherlock murmured, "I've always wanted to watch this"

John glanced up at Sherlock in surprised. "And why haven't you? Before, I mean."

Sherlock shrugged, but remained quiet. He couldn't tell John that the only reason why he didn't watch it was because he had no one to watch it with him. That he had never truly had a friend to do anything with. And he thought it was simply too sad and pathetic to watch it alone. So he didn't. Until now. Until John. And he certainly couldn't tell John how happy he felt at this moment, with someone, doing something normal. Taking a break from the endless depths and swirls of his uncontrollable and fast-paced mind. John was the perfect distraction to it; the perfect friend. He couldn't imagine life without John. He'd be devastated if John was to ever leave him. He'd probably even turned back to his old ways again...

Sherlock swallowed roughly and tried to put a lid on those thoughts. Too emotional, too overwhelming. Sherlock chanced a glance in John's direction. Clutching a pillow to his chest, John looked utterly happy and relaxed. At home. Of course he does, Sherlock scoffed at himself, he's with me. And his body wanted nothing more than to be close with John's. He wanted to feel something from John, anything.

Everything.

His attention diverted to John's hands. Maybe if he was to lay his head on John's lap, he may be lucky enough to have John slip his fingers through his hair. A warm thrill went through Sherlock at the thought. Sherlock pursed his lips lest any unwanted noise should come out. He thought quickly. Well the movie's just started...and usually this is the best time to get comfortable...I might as well take this pillow and then... Sherlock nonchalantly grabbed the softest pillow next to him, rested it against John's reclining flank and promptly shoved his head on top. He then held his breath, praying that this wasn't a horrible idea.

There was a momentary pause from John. Sherlock felt his body tense the slightly before relaxing again. A hand dropped softly on his shoulder. Through the pillow pressed against his face, he heard the vibrations course through John's body as he ever so quietly murmured, "Sherlock?"

"Shh John, I need to be comfortable to properly enjoy this drastically unrealistic yet promising movie."

He felt a silent chuckle emit from John's body. "Okay, as long as you're comfortable"

Sherlock fake-scoffed an "of course I am" but internally he was jumping with joy. It worked. He was touching John. His large hand rested on John's mid-thigh, feeling his warmth through his jeans. John's own hand slid down to his forearm, holding Sherlock to him. Feeling the rise and fall of John's chest, soft breaths sounding from above him. The contact threatened to consume his senses; he felt a pleasant yet intense tingle where John's hand touched his arm. Sherlock briefly closed his eyes to take it all in, just to feel and nothing else. Be in the here and now. John and him. He was already feeling light-headed. It was sublime. He was being held. Touched. Wanted. Finally. Finally. _Finally_.

Sherlock's body sagged in relief, and he let out a deep and satisfied sigh. Even if he didn't have anything else, he had this. He had John. Then, remembering why he was in this lovely, lovely position, he focused on the movie before him, but the little smile on his face remained.

-

Halfway through the movie, Sherlock's neck was terribly cramped. He didn't think the angling through enough. And now he was loathed to have to move. John must have sensed his discomfort however for he asked, "You okay?"

"Mmm no. Not really. I'm feeling a bit cramped." Sherlock felt disappointment flood through him when he realised he ought to get up now. And he was doing just that when he felt John's hand remain firmly on his shoulder. Sherlock held himself up and looked over to John inquisitively.

"Hold on"

John slithered down the along couch into a half- sitting, half- lying position, wedging some pillows between the arm of the sofa and his head and back. He grabbed the pillow Sherlock had been resting on and placed it in the cradle between his forearm and chest. Done, he looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Come here"

Sherlock could only stare. And blink, his face contorted in confusion. That kind of position involves more physical contact. More arms holding on, more torsos being pressed together, more closeness. More. Oh, so much more. And Sherlock wanted nothing more than to fling himself on top of the man. But hesitation held him back. John, self-proclaimed straight man, wouldn't feel comfortable with being in this much proximity with another man. And a man none other than Sherlock Holmes. No. He couldn't possibly be okay with this. Sherlock detested what he was about to do, but he had to do it for the sake of their friendship.

Sherlock drew himself away, eyes downcast. "Look John, I..."

"Sherlock, come now...it's all fine." Eyes affectionate, John gave Sherlock a tentative smile. Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. "John...?"

"Hush now Sherlock. The good part's coming up. You wouldn't want to miss this" And with that, John turned his attention purposely to the TV, giving Sherlock time to collect himself, his shock, and carefully lay his body alongside John's torso, into his arms. He held his breath the whole time, and when he was settled into the embracing snugness that was _John_ , let it all out shakily. Oh god. This was spectacular. John was so _warm_. His chest pressed against John's side, legs almost tangled, feeling John's soft puffs of air in his hair, hand resting on John's chest, John's own hand in turn securely holding Sherlock to him, and almost...almost hearing John's heartbeat through the pillow. Sherlock felt a light shudder ripple through his body. It was so wonderful, so warm, so safe. His body tingled in all the places they were touching, the most prominent area being his shoulder, which John has cupped in his hand firmly. He didn't think this could feel so good. This...cuddling? Yes, Sherlock confirmed. This was cuddling. Oh god. Sherlock didn't want to focus on the movie anymore, John was just so much more fascinating and he didn't know if he'd ever get the opportunity to be so closed to him again. So Sherlock let his eyes flutter shut and relished in John's presence, breathing in time to John's breaths.

-

About ten minutes later, something funny must have happened because John's chest was shaking with laughter. "Sherlock," John chuckled. "Did you see- oh."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat and he froze in panic. Oh no.

"Oh Sherlock, you can't see at all from that angle!" - Sherlock didn't even notice - "Best get rid of that pillow."

Sherlock lifted his head to turn to John and say, "What do you mean?" But before he could even open his mouth to speak, he felt the pillow disappear from underneath him, and a hand slide into his curls, guiding his head to rest on a very warm, and very hard, very real, chest. The spine-tingling sensation of a hand cradling his sensitive scalp was almost too much to bear and before Sherlock could silence himself, a small whimper of "John" escaped his lips. The hand ran soothingly through his curls in response. Sherlock trembled.

"Okay?"

Sherlock was doing all he can to not hyperventilate then and there. Two hands were holding him now, his body was practically flushed against John's from head to toe, and what's more, he could hear the steady, rhythmic _da-dum da-dum_ sound of John's heart.

"Oh," he whispered in revelation. This wasn't okay. This was glorious. And heavenly. And so right, so so right that he could cry. In fact, he very much wanted to because for all this contact, this _cuddling_ , John will never fully realise what Sherlock feels for him. This unacceptable feeling he carries with him in this platonic relationship. All of a sudden, Sherlock felt very small and miserable. He couldn't see a happy ending for him here, even though he desperately wanted to.

Worried by Sherlock's silence, John squeezed the detective's shoulder lightly. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's throat bobbed up and down before he quickly nodded and whispered, "Yes, John I'm fine, thank you." John answered with a hum, his fingers lightly stroking up and down Sherlock's arm. Sherlock quivered in shameful delight.

Sherlock's body was acutely in tune to John's touches, and like a bow to a string, John seemed to be playing him, and very splendidly indeed.

 


	2. Another Day, Another Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit stagnant, but slowly getting there folks. Enjoy

During the rest of the movie, Sherlock feeling very warm, focusing on John's touches, and trying not to shudder whenever John absently caressed his scalp or ran his fingers down his arm, and back up again. Sherlock had completely given up on watching the movie. Breathing in John's scent - spices and tea - and basking in his body heat was all Sherlock could prioritize throughout the duration of the film. He had never, despite his daunting thoughts, felt so blissful and satisfied by someone's presence, by their touch. In some ways, he felt like a child again; being held, protected against all of the evils of the world, thinking that no matter what happened, he could always have someone to go to and feel better. And right now, he felt like this with John. Sherlock trusted John with all his heart. It doesn't come as a shock to him anymore. If Sherlock was to choose one, and only one partner in this world, it will always, _always_ , be John. Faithful, loyal, kind-hearted, John.

With every breath John took, Sherlock's head would rise with his chest, and with every exhale, his head would fall gently back down. But Sherlock was so much more focused on John's heart. Just like the man himself, the organ beat sure and steady, soothing Sherlock and his anxious thoughts, and it was its music that eventually lulled Sherlock into peaceful slumber

                                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

"Sherlock"

A quiet whisper, warm breath, and a finger sliding down a sharp cheekbone.

It was a subtle way to wake someone up, but Sherlock's silver eyes flashed open straight away. He blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings - still in John's arms - and stretched luxuriously, feeling a few bones popped back into place and groaning in satisfaction. He hadn't slept so well in years.

Feeling drowsy with contentment, Sherlock once again settled into John's arms. He felt a chest chuckle beneath him.

"Ah no sleepyhead - off to bed. No kipping on the couch."

"But John the movie!"

But the movie was obviously finished. Sherlock was dismayed to learn that his snuggle session - yes he decided to call it that - with John was over. He sat up, looking incredulously down at John.

"Yes Sherlock, as you well are able to deduce, it's over" John teased whilst gesturing towards the television, where the end credits were rolling. Sherlock turned his head to the right and stared unhappily at the TV. "Oh, right"

John stretched and smiled happily. "You must have really enjoyed that movie then huh?" He looked a bit proud of himself for getting Sherlock to like a fantasy action film. Really John? Sherlock thought exasperated. If I was enjoying it I wouldn't be asleep! However, he probably would have been more intrigued by it had he not been cosying up with John. Sherlock sighed sadly. "Yes, I really did" But he wasn't looking at the TV anymore, instead laying his eyes on the chest his head was on a moment ago.

John sat up, seeming not to notice and started to pack up the area, collecting their empty cups of tea and takeaway boxes. "Well lucky for you there are still another three of those movies to watch."

And as John left the living room to do away with the cups and empty boxes in the kitchen, he completely missed the bright beam that spread across Sherlock's face. It was probably lucky he didn't see it; it was a smile much too large and eager for any pirate movie.

                                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The next morning Lestrade texted about a case involving a bag of fingers whose bloody prints were found on a grand piano. So after breakfast, Sherlock whisked John away with him to the crime scene. After a good night of sleep and now an above six case, Sherlock was feeling like it was Christmas. A cab found Sherlock and John in the West End of London.

Sherlock had awoken that morning not in the arms of John, but still pleased and refreshed as one can be. He shared a soft smile with John, who greeted him with a chirpy good morning and some toast with tea. They spoke about last night's movie, well, John spoke while Sherlock gave the vaguest answers he could, having no idea what had happened for most of the movie. But he still held a private smile, thoughts on something entirely more pleasant and worthwhile. He had already spent most of his night in bed categorizing every caress, ever huff of breath, and even the specific way that John's heart had thudded against his ear. Sherlock didn't have a room for John in his mind palace, rather he had an outside sun-house for him. Warm. Sunny. Peaceful. A recluse for him when his mind has its episodes of tearing itself apart. It was a large place and the presence of John was everywhere. In there, Sherlock could see past the glass windows to the greenery beyond, could even hear the faint chirping of birds in the distance. Sometimes to not be idle, he also kept bees in the room, with of course leaving the door open so they could wonder about the garden and collect pollen and nectar. Sherlock usually lost track of time here whenever he dwelt in his mind palace. John often though these prolonged 'mind palace session' were for cases, Sherlock never bothered to correct him lest the doctor found out.

Now they were outside, here, in the crisp morning air, and what's more the sun was outside. It was a beautiful day, even better for they were on a case, mysteries to unravel, culprits to find. Sherlock could tell that John's spirits were in the air; hands were steady and loose, posture relaxed, not to mention the bright, keen smile he had on his face.

Lestrade's face when greeting them however, was downcast and heavy with uncertainly. In other words, nothing atypical of the detective inspector.

"Alright boys," the tired man sighed heavily. "Here's the gist of it..."

Lestrade informed Sherlock that a bag of fingers were found inside a drain in the basement of a house. They haven't yet been able to identify whose fingers they belonged to. Part of that was because they haven't been any reports in about a person with missing fingers, but it was mostly due to the fingers coming from different sets of hands. That is, no two fingers came from the same person. Stranger still, the prints of all the fingers can be found on the keys of a grand piano located in an upstairs room. And they were bloody. One would think that the fingers had been chopped off whilst playing the piano. It was a massacre of fingers: a bloody mess. The crime scene may mostly be confined to the black and white planes of a grand piano, but it didn't make the image any less brutal. Sherlock was in very high spirits indeed, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Upon coming to the crime scene, they were immediately ushered into the house, shown into rooms that served their main points of interest. Sherlock had immediately shown intrigue at the smallest of details; the pictures on the mantelpiece, the packets of ice in the freezer, small indents on the walls. When he finally came to the room with the bloody piano, Sherlock let out a small excited gasp and was on it like a bloodhound. Ducking and swerving around the instrument, looking this way and that, Sherlock took in and categorized all the details of the gruesome scene, clapping now and then in revelation. John could only look on, smiling wide and proud as Sherlock made the connections.

And then Sherlock stopped. His deductions were bringing clarity to the picture, to the story that was slowly unwinding before them. He was closing in onto the scent. His eyes then widened considerably before twirling on the spot and rushing out of the room.

"Oh! Obvious...Obvious!"

John was on the mad detective's heels.

                                                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

That night they found themselves back at 221b, heaving and gasping with laughter.

"Sherlock, that was absolutely brilliant. You are brilliant"

Luckily, Sherlock was already flushed from the run, so John didn't have to see anything unusual spreading like wildfire across his face. Sherlock let his heart flutter one, two times before he deemed getting overexcited by another compliment was simply silly. Well that was at least what his mind was arguing, his heart however was whispering soft words. _It isn't silly at all._

John suddenly looked at Sherlock, expression fierce.

"Let's do dinner"

Sherlock felt his brows rise, he hadn't heard that line since, well, her. The Woman. Did John realise what he just said? Or better yet, the way he said it? But alas John was still looking at him steadily and didn't seem to notice the implication of his words. That it, the implications it caused to Sherlock's peace of mind. Because right now, it wasn't peaceful, it was raging and wild. Swirling with thoughts and full of ideas...ideas Sherlock struggled to keep a lid on.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked back to the present. "Hm?"

"Dinner? Where'd you go just then?" John had a wry, almost-knowing smile on his face. Sherlock became immediately flustered.

"I-erm, that is, would like um dinner. Very -ahem- much"

"Good"

And once more, they were whisked into the night, this time on the hunt for good food.

                                                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The restaurant they visited that night wasn't their typical kind of restaurant, but John had heard it was good from a few colleagues at work and simply put, he wanted something a little different tonight. It was a middle-eastern restaurant. This place was impressive, that was for sure. Colourful chandeliers hanging from the ceiling; woven, handmade tapestries decorating the walls, and the faint smell of incense mingled with the heady scent of food. The room was abound with a swarm of earthy colours, and the lights were dimmed, providing a cosy and intimate atmosphere.

Sherlock and John were able to find a unreserved table, however the booths were small, and the restaurant was crowded, so they found themselves forced to sit next to one another, bodies flushed from their shoulders down to their thighs. Not that Sherlock minded.

They ordered their food and waited, taking in the scene, listening to the general chatter of the people surrounding them, stomachs growling.

John was seated to the left of Sherlock, so when their food came, it wasn't too hard to maneuver themselves into more accommodating positions to eat. Their meals consisted of beef stew, rice, and a range of roasted vegetables. they dug in without thinking twice.

"Oh this is nice. Very nice" John commented.

"Mmm" Sherlock's mouth was too full to respond. That, and he was still thinking over the case. It was a bitter old man who did it. It was quite simple really. Edward Abel was once a master piano player, until he had the accident with his middle finger; an accident that caused it to chop right off. He was a perfectionist, and as he struggled to player with the missing finger, Abel grew more and more mad. Long story short, he lured beginners into free piano lessons, where he murdered them and kept their middle fingers. Messy and stupid, Sherlock thought. He has truly believed the case would hold more merit, although no doubt the detective knew John would be blogging about this one. The said man was silent beside him, completely engrossed in his meal.

                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

They didn't speak for a while. Sherlock appreciated that about John. There was no need to fill silence with empty talk. Not that they ever had empty talk, but sometimes Sherlock's mind liked to run as a low hum, not really thinking, rather giving those controls to his body; becoming more in-tuned to sensations and feelings.

But then John shifted. Making himself more comfortable, John placed his right hand behind Sherlock, and it wasn't quite touching him, but Sherlock could still feel the heat emanating from it. It was like the anticipation of waiting for John to move his hand an inch and touch him was like a touch in itself. It was very distracting. 

For the rest of the meal, Sherlock tried not to squirm so much and instead, focused on finishing the food in front of him.

                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Soon after they were finished, they opted to walk back to the flat, enjoying the fresh breezy air the night brought. The sky was cloudy up ahead, and every so often the pair would bump hands as they strolled. Back at home, they had both gone to their respective rooms, and when Sherlock had reemerged from his again, clad in comfy pyjamas, John was waiting for him in the living room, two cups of tea on the coffee table and a DVD.

John smiled as Sherlock walked in, "I though we might have another movie night." He held up a copy of Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest.

Sherlock kept his gleeful expression under wraps.

"Yes please"


	3. Coming forth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I took so long to update! I made this chapter extra special to make up for the wait. In other words... angst, angst, angst! Enjoy :))

Steaming hot teas were ready and Sherlock and John were sidled up together on the sofa relaxing, well at least John was. Sherlock was too wired up in anticipation; his body was thrumming, already eager for the first touch. John had made popcorn this time, and as the movie started, Sherlock found himself nibbling on the kernels for lack of anything better to do. He couldn’t make a move just yet, but his impatience was apparent for he kept stealing glances over at John.

Most times, Sherlock could easily keep up the arrogant and disinterested pretence in uncomfortable situations, but not this time. He knew that acting aloof wouldn't help in the least bit when achieving the act of - should he dare say it? - snuggling. So he just sat there, eyes flicking between the TV screen and John, trying to come up with a clever plan.

Fifteen minutes into the film and Sherlock had thus far no luck. His plans kept coming up short. Why did his plans keep coming up short? Why? Why? Why?! Last time it had been too easy, the detective thought angrily as he shoved popcorn into his mouth. What was the common denominator that stopped all his plans from working now? Why couldn't he just figure it out? He munched on, disgruntled and irked. It was during his aggressive chewing of said popcorn when he suddenly realised why his plans kept reaching dead ends and looked down. Oh it was the bloody popcorn! John eating popcorn meant no room for lie down cuddles. In other words, John was too occupied for him. Sherlock stared murderously down at the bowl on John's lap. There was only one solution. The popcorn must go. How? Eat all the popcorn. Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded to himself decidedly. Yes. He would do this. For the cuddles. 

*** ***                                                                                                                 

John could only look on in silent shock as the I-don’t-eat-because-my-body-is-simply-transport detective yanked the bowl of popcorn from his lap and forcefully shoved handful after handful of popcorn into his mouth. And he wasn’t particularly neat about it either- popcorn was flying in all directions and one even got caught up in his curls. John couldn’t help thinking, feeling slightly confused and disturbed, _if that isn’t a man on a mission, then I don’t know what is_. But the good doctor didn’t comment; after all, it wasn’t the strangest thing Sherlock has done during their time living together

*** ***

Oh God. How could people eat so much and not feel positively disgusted with themselves? Sherlock was clutching his stomach - he had completed his mission to eat all the popcorn - as he tried to hold back a grimace. John had made enough popcorn for two grown men and Sherlock just went ahead and ate all of it. He felt vile. The empty bowl was beside him on the couch. And he was fuming because now he felt too sick to do anything other than sit there, willing his metabolism to digest his food faster. He hadn't foreseen this part of his plan. _Stupid, stupid!_

After glaring angrily at the movie for five minutes, Sherlock felt a prickle at the back of his neck; a tell-tale sign that a pair of eyes were on you. Sherlock turned his head to meet the eyes of an amused John, eyebrows up, a little quirk of his lips forming a smile, and gave the doctor an answering questioning frown that said _Problem?_

John let out a little chuckle, "Well it's just that you finished all that popcorn... and I don't think I've ever seen you finish anything else before, well apart from cases that is." Sherlock froze. John's eyes held humour there... but something else. Something a bit too knowing for Sherlock's liking. He noticed, he must have noticed. Sherlock panicked and without thinking it through, stood up. "Well I'm erm, just going to er, lie down. Won't be doing that again." The detective gestured to the empty bowl, save for the residue salt. "Goodnight."

And with that Sherlock promptly turned around and marched to his room, cursing himself all the while. _Stupid stupid stupid._

Caught up in his thoughts, he didn't hear the despondent sigh behind him.

*** ***

The next morning Sherlock was in a foul mood. He refused to eat at breakfast, and then proceeded to throw a huge sulk over the lack of interesting cases. John had asked by his place near the kettle - preparing tea - what was wrong, but the detective just huffed angrily and left John to his own assumptions. In truth, Sherlock felt ridiculous about the night before, he had gotten his hopes and expectations up too high. He should have known better. Sherlock would just have to stick to the memories of the first night from now on, make do with the moments that were stored and labelled carefully in his mind palace. And curled up on the sofa right now, Sherlock didn't think there was a better time to visit his mind palace, his secluded sun house full of bees and John. He could still hear John teetering about in the kitchen as he closed his eyes, and he willed his mind to another, warmer, place.

*** ***

Sherlock, far deep in his mind palace, didn't hear John walk up to him, or feel the finger that brushed a stray lock from his forehead, nor did he hear the television being set up and soon after feel the weight of a body shifting the sofa as it sat. He certainly didn't feel the warm palm that cupped one of his ankles, as another hand clicked the remote control and the TV screen blared to  life. No, Sherlock had no clue.

*** ***

Sherlock emerged from his mind palace groggily, perhaps he had been there too long, or perhaps, and being much more likely, he had fallen asleep. Escaping the world of dreams and blinking back into reality, the detective had woken up to the sounds coming from the TV – exaggerated and completely unnecessary loud cries and shouts – it took him a moment to place the themed music and then then he realised that it was another one of those pirate films. Which could only mean… John was here too. And that’s when Sherlock felt it – the gentle strokes on his bare ankle. A warm body near his. Sherlock’s own body froze. But then relaxed again. John thumb was trailing the barely-there veins, whilst his other fingers kept a steady hold on the sleuth’s ankle, giving warmth to the cold skin. It was lovely but Sherlock wasn’t too sure about what to do. He didn’t want to let John know he was awake, because then surely John would stop and Sherlock would have to get up. But he felt restless as well, like he wanted more. Oh this was too confusing. Sherlock thought for a moment, trying to devise a clever plan. Then he smiled. _Got it._

*** ***

Sherlock shivered, and curled up into himself. More than a lanky body could possibly do, and somehow his ankle still hadn’t left John’s grasp.

John almost immediately noticed the shiver, as it had happened again, then again. John looked over to Sherlock’s sleeping form. “Sherlock?” The detective didn’t answer, still asleep. Sherlock was cold, that much was obvious but should John get up and get a blanket or should he just… Yeah why not that, John thought to himself. Bugger it.

*** ***

Sherlock waited.

And for a long moment John didn’t do anything. Sherlock held back an impatient sigh. He knew exactly what the chivalrous doctor was going to do, if only he could _hurry up and do it._

But then John shifted and moved, and kept moving until he was behind Sherlock. He was keeping himself extremely quiet, not to wake the detective, but Sherlock wished he could just get along with it, his body was still shivering, but this time with anticipation. And then finally, _finally,_ John settled - or more like squeezed – himself right behind Sherlock, half draping his smaller form over the detective’s larger one. He felt arms wrap themselves around his middle and hold him closer. He could feel unsteady breaths against his nape. His own breaths were struggling to remain stable. The only thing Sherlock’s mind could register was warmth, there was so much warmth. John’s body was like a furnace, a solid weight and a constant heat along the line of Sherlock’s back. This wasn’t just snuggling Sherlock thought delightedly, this was _spooning_. And it was marvellous. Sherlock tried not to hyperventilate right then and there. He kept his breaths steady, deep and calm as he felt John snuggle closer and make himself more comfortable behind him.

Sherlock felt like there was a dull burn lighting up his nerves, his senses became acutely aware of every miniature movement that John made, every shift and bump.

And for a while, they remained like that, settled, warm and very much touching.

*** ***

Sherlock must have dozed off again for when he opened his eyes, the movie was finished and was set back to the menu. The movie was finished but John was still right there behind him, breathing evenly and deeply. Asleep then. That was probably one of the most peaceful sleeps Sherlock had had in the longest time. He stifled back a yawn and relaxed back into John’s warmth, but after a while of basking in cosy bliss, started to noticed that something wasn’t quite right. That something was happening.

Sherlock snuggled back closer and tried to deduce what he couldn’t see of John. His deductions came swiftly, and frowned in concern at what his senses were telling him: John was in the beginnings of a nightmare. Sherlock could feel fast and shallow breaths on his neck, could see John’s left hand twitching and shaking, and could hear the muffled, incoherent words that were mumbled into his curls. John was beginning to sound panicked and scared. This wasn’t good. If Sherlock lets this go on any further, John would be thrashing about and yelling in no time. Thinking quickly, the sleuth turned himself around in the doctor’s lank arms. Facing him directly, Sherlock noted that John’s face was contorted in something akin to pain. Must be dreaming of the war then.

Sherlock lifted a hand and tenderly placed it on John’s face, wishing he could smooth the rigid lines of worry away. He stroked his thumb across the doctor’s cheek and whispered softly. “John… John, wake up”. John’s mumblings only grew louder and more distressed. Sherlock smoothed his thumb over John’s brow. “Shh shh… it’s okay…John, it’s okay, I’m here. Wake up,” he soothed and pleaded. John shook his head and said something unintelligible, his whole boy was twitching now. Oh god. This wasn’t good. Sherlock sat up and cradled John’s face in his palms. He spoke louder, hoping his voice will resonate through the dreams, and to John’s consciousness. “John. John! You need to wake up”

“Sher…” John murmured, still unconscious. Yes okay, it’s working. He’s coming through. Thank god.

“Good John, good. That’s it, wake up”

“Sherlock” John slurred and sniffled. His eyelashes were beginning to dampen. “Don’t… don’t do it. Please…no”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “John?”

“Don’t…jump…don’t leave me.” Tears were openly flowing down his cheeks, over the slope of his noise, and dropping onto the palm of Sherlock’s right palm and onto the cushion below. He was crying. He was crying and Sherlock could only look on, stricken and lost for words. _He’s having a nightmare about my suicide._ He felt a lump form in his throat, and struggled to swallow past it. _Oh John…_

For a moment Sherlock could only sit there, still and sad, his thumbs the only things moving as they swiped the tears away from John’s cheeks. Then, relying purely on long-neglected instinct, Sherlock laid back down, and gathered the still-weeping John to him, protectively tucking the blonde’s head underneath his chin. He rocked them back and forth gently as he whispered calming words, confessions, and apologies to the smaller man. He didn’t have the heart nor wanted to raise his voice and yell at the man to wake up. He kept his words hushed and low. John continued on, and with every sob and whimper Sherlock clutched him tighter to himself, feeling wretched.

And so Sherlock cradled John in his arms, waiting and dearly hoping his tears will stop soon, and he will wake up. He didn’t once loosen his hold of John, nor stop the lull of his words…a lull he hoped would soon have John returned to him once more.

*** *** 

John jerked and gasped loudly and that was how Sherlock knew he was awake. Sherlock had been holding him for an hour now. During that time, John had stopped crying and fell into a deeper, sounder, sleep. Sherlock felt like this was good; it may allow John to forget the nightmare completely.

Now Sherlock can feel the man slightly pull away from him, and looking down, he met the gaze of a befuddled and slightly wary John. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt his throat move, he looked away. “You had a nightmare John. I’m so sorry”

John looked even more puzzled and unsettled. “For what? Are you okay?” Sherlock bit his bottom lip and shook his head in embarrassment, suddenly feeling emotional. Damn it, he shouldn’t have said anything. There was no reason to remind John again, to make him remember what was haunting his dreams. That Sherlock was haunting his dreams. That it was all Sherlock’s fault.

John, still in Sherlock’s arms, reached up and tenderly cupped Sherlock’s cheek, coercing him to look into his eyes. Expression softening, he said, “Sherlock. Tell me…please.” Sherlock stared at John, backs of his eyes stinging, throat steadily clogging up and relented. “You dreamed about me jumping, faking my suicide.” John’s eyes clouded over and looked sad. “Oh” He removed his hand. Sherlock immediately missed the loss.

“John I’m so sorry. I can’t express how sorry I am…” Sherlock felt tears building up and threatening to spill. He felt so guilt-ridden and responsible for John. “…in the end, I thought I could make it better, and I couldn’t. You always hold so much faith in me John and I’ve only succeeded in disappointing you.” Sherlock didn’t know where all these admissions were coming from, and frankly it was terrifying him, being this open and honest, but all the same, he felt like it needed to be said. He felt a stray tear slide down his cheek and seep into the cushion beneath him. “Forgive me, John”

John looked like he had taken a serious blow from Sherlock’s words, eyes turning worried and alarmed. “Sherlock, no… no no no” John wrapped an arm around Sherlock and clung to him. “Don’t you say that. You’re an extraordinary, enigmatic and brilliant man. You mesmerise me. I am transfixed by you; you’ll always be in my sights and will never disappoint me and you never have. Yes, you have hurt me, lead me to grieve you, forced me to move on without you… but then you came back. Sherlock, I could not have wished for anything more in my life. I belong to you Sherlock, as your blogger, as your friend, as your- your…”

Sherlock listened to John with wide and disbelieving eyes. Was he possibly saying what he thought he could be saying? “John?” he asked, a hitch in his breath. He needed to know.

John brought his hand back to Sherlock’s face again, wiping his cheeks, where streaks of tears seemed to have been tailing down. “Shh you’re crying.” Sherlock hadn’t even realised. Sherlock tried again. He was desperate to know. “John… are you saying-?”

Caressing Sherlock’s face, John smiled fondly, eyes glittering and warm.

“Yes”

Sherlock felt his heart jump into his throat. “J-John you’re -?”

Sherlock felt fingers drift down to lightly trace his lips. “Yes, you mad, magnificent man” John slid his hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw and shifted forward. “Yes and always” He said and pressed his warm lips to Sherlock’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that one took a turn for the angst...but ended cute and fluffy with a little wincy cliffhanger
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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